Days Roll By
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: The Curious Case of Dean Winchester tag: Something's eating Sam, but it's not what Dean expects.


**Days Roll By**  
K Hanna Korossy

Sam stepped out of the clinic, gave a furtive glance around, then visibly relaxed when he saw the Impala waiting across the street. He jogged over and slid inside.

Dean was already grinning. "So, nothing's gonna fall off or turn green or anything?"

Sam flushed, burrowing back in the seat. "I'm not talking to you about this."

"Dude, you're my brother. I'm just concerned about your health," Dean said earnestly.

"Yeah, you know, that would mean a lot more if you didn't look like you thought this was the funniest thing ever."

"My virtuous little brother getting the clap? Yeah, man, it kinda is."

Sam glowered at him. "From a _witch. _Not the way _you_ usually get it, Dean."

Dean tweaked an eyebrow at him as he started the car. "That the best you've got, dude? That's weak. And for your information, I've never had the clap."

Sam gave him a frankly disbelieving look.

Dean cleared his throat. "You ready to get out of here?"

"God, yes."

"Right there with you, bro." Dean pulled out in a break in the traffic and took the first exit out of town. Didn't really matter where they were going as long as it was _away. _

Sam tossed a long arm over the top of the seat and glanced over at Dean. "So, did you talk to Bobby?"

"Yep."

"Did it help?"

Dean chewed his lip. "Maybe? I mean, he wasn't popping wheelies in his chair when he left, but…yeah, I think I got through to him. 'Least I don't think he'll be eating his gun or anything."

Sam winced but nodded. There was a pause, then he ventured, "How about you?"

Dean threw him a puzzled look. "How about me what?"

"No more aching joints or heart palpitations?"

The answer made him breathe a little easier. For a second he thought Sam was asking if Dean ever felt like throwing in the towel and…Sam wouldn't like the answer to that one. Nor did Dean have any intention of ever spilling it. "Nope. Hundred percent back to my former young, incredibly handsome self."

He knew he was leaving himself wide open to Sam's withering sarcasm, but he still didn't expect the follow-up. "So, that would be the post-Hell, angel-handprinted, rehymenated young, incredibly handsome self?" Sam asked with a small smile.

Dean had to think about that one. He _had_ gone through a couple different bodies lately. "Huh. You don't think I'm a born-again virgin…again, do you?"

"That's not what… Never mind," Sam said hastily, turning pink once more.

Dean would've taken more advantage of his brother's embarrassment if he hadn't been distracted by the intriguing idea. And what he was going to do about it.

He might've even given some thought to the way Sam kept watching him afterward.

00000

"Maybe we should've finished the spell."

It came out of the blue as things often did with Sam, so Dean barely paused in his chewing, just canted his head at his brother. "What spell?"

Sam gave him his _you're an idiot_ look, which Dean thought got way too much use. Although, yeah, okay, if he'd thought about it a second, he would've figured it out.

He popped a French fry in his mouth and answered around it. "You mean the spell-breaking spell? Take everyone back to their original age?"

Sam was slurping his milkshake. Chocolate instead of his usual vanilla; his tastes had shifted some since the whole demon blood thing, something Dean still hadn't decided how he felt about. Sam shrugged, drawing Dean's attention back. "We don't know who else he played. Maybe there are a few other old people gimping around who didn't actually die."

"Naw." Dean shook his head. "Town's not that big—we would've heard."

"And," Sam coughed discreetly, "Mr. Whitlow?" Off Dean's bafflement, he added, "Old Faithful who turned into Young Faithless?"

Dean snorted. "The missus is better off without him. Look, there's no point, Sam—Patrick's leaving town, folks got what they played for. It's Miller time, dude."

Sam sighed, poking glumly at his pickle. "Yeah, I guess. If you're sure you feel back to normal…"

Dean gave him a surprised look. "That's what's eating you? Sam, I swear, I'm fine. Feels like the whole Benjamin Button thing never even happened."

Sam's expression became totally unreadable. And that made Dean more than a little uncomfortable.

"Dude, what's going on with you?" he asked in exasperation.

"Nothing. It's—" Sam glanced up, caught sight of Dean's face, and cut the lie short. They had no allowances left for that anymore. "It doesn't matter, okay? I promise."

Dean didn't like leaving it at that, but no secrets didn't mean baring their souls to each other on a daily basis, either. God knew, Dean had plenty he wanted to keep buried deep. It wasn't hard to come up with a couple dozen things that could've been bugging Sam about their last case, everything from Bobby's depression to Dean's near-heart attack to Sam having had to play for both their lives. Throw in the fact that Sam was still a giant girl, and it was no surprise he was still angsting over how things had gone down, and the one that had—albeit with Dean's blessing—gotten away.

"Okay," Dean finally said. They were never going to make this whole _second chances _thing work if he didn't offer Sam some trust to see what he did with it.

Sam's small, grateful smile in response? Totally paid it off right there.

00000

Great. He could've sworn he'd brought clean boxers into the bathroom, but they weren't in the pile on the edge of the sink. Probably shouldn't've driven those last hundred miles, but Sam had found a potential job upstate and Dean had wanted to put in a little more time behind the wheel before they bedded down for the night. He was almost groggy with sleep now, however, even after a shower, and he was forgetting stuff. Like his underwear. Terrific.

With an aggrieved sigh, Dean knotted the towel around his waist and headed back out into the room, ready to intercept Sam if the guy made a break for the empty bathroom. Dean wasn't giving up his dibs without a fight.

Sam wasn't poised for flight, at least not into the bathroom. He _was_ perched on the edge of the chair by the small corner table, but his eyes were fixed on Dean, not an opportunity for poaching. Or, more exactly, his eyes were on Dean's shoulder.

"'S not like you haven't seen it before," Dean snapped, unaccountably ruffled. Sam had examined the scar more than once, sometimes with morbid fascination, sometimes with a faint wistfulness Dean understood came from his not having been the one to pull Dean out of Hell. But something about the way Sam looked at it now, like it was horrific or something, made Dean feel suddenly exposed.

"I know," Sam said faintly. "I just… I hoped…"

"Okay, you know what? That does it." Dean threw down the boxers he'd just fished out. "What's going on with you, Sam? And don't tell me it doesn't matter, because obviously it does."

Sam swallowed, looking away.

Dean's blood pressure spiked. He opened his mouth, ready to tell his brother what he could go do with his secrets, when Sam finally spoke.

"Go get dressed, okay?" At Dean's narrow gaze, he held up a placating hand. "I'll tell you, all right? Just get dried off first."

Dean looked at him suspiciously, but it was true that the room's air was chilly on his wet skin, and hopefully whatever Sam was hiding—again—could wait a few more minutes. Grudgingly, Dean nodded and stomped back into the bathroom.

Two minutes later he was out again, socks in his hands and hair plastered down wetly, but too impatient—too worried—over what Sam was about to confess to wait any longer. He plunked down on Sam's bed, the closest seat to the chair where his brother sat chewing on his hand. "Start talking."

Sam breathed out and sat up, meeting Dean's eyes. "I didn't play for fifty years."

Dean froze, then sank back, resigned. "So, what, you got me forty? Thirty-five?" He gave a moment's thought to the idea and shrugged it away. He didn't feel any older, but even if he did, so what? Sam had given him back most of his life, and left himself a cushion just in case he lost. Dean couldn't begrudge him that. "It's okay," he shrugged, "I don't blame you for not wanting to risk going past the sixties—being old sucked, man."

"What?" Sam looked briefly bewildered, then his mouth fell open a little. "No! I mean, that's not—Dean, I played for fifty-_two _years."

Dean stared at him, his turn to blankly say, "What?"

Sam leaned forward, more animated than Dean had seen him all day. "Bobby was playing to get younger so he could get out of the chair, right? Well, I figured if _you_ shaved off a couple more years, maybe you could go back to before Hell. I mean, not the scars and old breaks and stuff, obviously, but the nightmares and the memories. I mean, that was worth a few more years, right?"

Dean was pretty sure he looked like a guppy, mouth opening and closing but nothing coming out. His mind was churning, however. Fifty-two years? Sam had risked extra time for him for that? Not like it had worked, but still, it was a heckuva thought. Totally like his kid brother, come to think of it.

Dean's jaw snapped shut. "I, uh…" He scrubbed at the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. "I don't think it works that way, dude. I mean, nip/tuck the effects of time, sure, but it wasn't old age that put Bobby in that chair or me in Hell. Stupid still has a price."

"It wasn't stupid," Sam said quietly. "Sacrifice isn't stupid."

Dean slowly nodded. Because maybe they'd both made some wrong choices, but there'd been some right reasons buried underneath.

The moment broke. Sam headed into the bathroom to take his turn with the shower. Dean repacked his duffle and tossed the dirty clothes roughly in the direction of the laundry bag. They'd have to find a Laundromat soon, maybe after they'd cased the next job. Maybe he'd even quit making Sam do penance and run the wash himself. Sometimes they had car magazines to read while you waited.

Dean had the TV on when Sam came out, more for background noise than because he had any energy left to watch. Sam glanced at the screen, shook his head, and climbed into bed, sighing in sleepy satisfaction as he stretched out on his stomach.

"Hey, Sam?" Dean teased a splinter free of the seam of his blanket and flicked it aside.

"Hmm."

"Thanks. You know, for trying?" He didn't mean to make it a question, but he wasn't quite sure how it would be received, either. Intentions hadn't gotten them very far of late.

Sam snorted softly into the bedding, then turned his head. "I cheated."

Dean blinked. "Patrick? You cheated a _witch?"_

"He gave me an _STD_," Sam said churlishly. "And I was playing for your life, Dean."

Dean gasped out a laugh. "Yeah, well as long as you've got your priorities straight." He shook his head in admiration. "Dude, that's…that's awesome. But you know what he would've done if he'd caught you, right?"

Sam buried his face back in the pillows. "Wouldn't've. Learned from the best," he mumbled, like that settled it.

Dean rolled his eyes and clicked off the TV before sinking down into his own bed. "Suck-up."

"Loser." The word was muffled but unmistakable.

"VD-Boy."

"You're an insensitive jerk, Dean."

"You're a witch's bitch, bitch."

There was hope for them yet.

**The End**


End file.
